


Forget Me Not

by Watergirl1968



Series: Treasure From The King [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Fluff, Jearmin - Freeform, M/M, Slow Burn, makeout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 00:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5605957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watergirl1968/pseuds/Watergirl1968
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If ever someone needs a second chance to make a first impression, it's Jean Kirschstein. When Armin suffers a freak accident resulting in memory loss, Jean summons up the courage to show his true feelings to Armin in a new way but...once Jean, always Jean!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jester

The last unbroken day that Armin Arlert had began like this:

He was getting dressed in the barracks, the grey, damp morning warmed by puddles of yellow gaslight. He shivered, stamping his feet on the floor, sighing out a small plume of frosty breath.

"Cold as tits," Jean Kirschstein, his platoon partner, grumbled. The tall sergeant pulled a leather belt through the loops at his waist.

"Tits ain't cold," Connie Springer remarked cheerily.

Jean's hazel eyes slid sideways, to where Mikasa Ackerman was quietly and carefully laying out her gear.

"Depends on the tits," Jean snorted. He grinned then, twisting around to ensure that Eren Jaeger was glaring at him.

Instead, he spied Armin, one arm thrust through the sleeve of his white shirt. The sleeve, careworn and slightly threadbare, ended mid-forearm. Armin was staring at it, as if trying to work out how a shirt he'd treated so carefully since age fifteen, no longer had sleeves long enough for his eighteen-year-old limbs.

"Somebody _grew_ ," Jean chortled.

Armin continued to stare at his arm. He frowned.

"Here," Jean bent, reached into his footlocker and chucked his spare olive drab shirt toward Armin.

Armin caught it, snapping out of his reverie. "Thank you," he nodded. "Just until I can get to the quartermaster's."

Armin sniffed at the green shirt suspiciously, finding it reasonably clean but still smelling of Jean; faint sweat, musk and citrus. He turned away, cheeks colouring.

Jean smirked, looking up to find Eren's gaze locking onto his. Good, he'd managed to annoy Eren and it wasn't even morning parade yet. Eren gripped his bootlaces in his fists tightly, lacing up and looking as though he'd prefer to garrotte Jean.

Without breaking eye contact with Eren, Jean called out: "Looks great on you, Armin. Now we're a matched set!"

__________

Levi's squad hunted it's prey in pairs. As the war against various titan factions had intensified, the Survey Corps had evolved into an elite combat unit.

Major Ackerman was a living example of the effectiveness of combat pairs; he'd been at Erwin Smith's side his entire career. Even after his Commander had lost an arm, the two of them were brutally efficient when they worked as a tandem.

Levi's elite six, plus eighteen more auxiliary, were thus paired up in the field. He'd taken advantage of the natural chemistry which existed within his unit, pairing Mikasa with Eren, Connie with Sasha Blaus and Jean Kirschstein with Erwin's young marshal, Armin Arlert.

One of the ongoing pleasures of Jean Kirschstein's life was rubbing this formation in Eren Jaeger's face every chance he got.

As the sun finally broke over the frosted stubble of the winter wheat fields, shining pale yellow through the windows of the wash-house, Jean leaned over the sink, face and chin lathered in foam, shaving carefully.

Armin stood beside him, in his borrowed olive shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, washing his face.

On the other side of Armin, Eren ran cold water into a basin, cleaning his teeth.

Jean glanced down at Armin. "You going to report like that?"

"Like what?"

"You going to parade unshaven?"

Eren bristled, toothbrush poking dangerously against his cheek. Jean teased Armin constantly; seeming to take great delight in the fact the Armin took everything utterly at face value.

"Huh?" Armin's deep blue eyes widened. "I don't need to shave," he frowned uncertainly.

Jean shrugged indifferently.

"Up to you," he said lightly. "But you've got whiskers on your chin now. And your lip."

Armin leaned forward. "I do?" A ray of sunlight caught his delicate face. "I do!"

Jean placed a small blade onto the wooden shelf between them. A shard from combat, one end wrapped in leather lacing.

"Here," Jean said, "It's sharp."

Armin touched the blade thoughtfully. Then, he took off his shirt, squared his slight shoulders importantly, and lathered his pointed chin.

__________

It would be a meagre Yuletide. The arable land inside of Wall Maria had produced a wasting crop, and a scourge had thinned the livestock herds.

Still, the soldiers of the reorganized 10th Platoon, under Major Ackerman's command, assembled in the wooden chapel that was built on a hill between the forest and the river.

The chapel had been constructed from timbers salvaged from the battle of Trost, Shiganshina and other sites where soldiers had fallen. It would be in this simple chapel, in a fortnight's time, that the soldiers would hold a simple Yulemas to honour their dead.

There was to be song, tributes, silver stars awarded, and candles lit for their ancestors.

That afternoon, about twenty Corpsmen gathered at the chapel to rehearse for Yulemas. Armin Arlert sang in the choir. As a small boy, he'd had a voice like a tiny angel, silver-sweet. The pure tone had held; despite other evidence of his burgeoning manhood, such as the blond whiskers that he'd proudly swished down the sink that morning.

Jean Kirschstein couldn't sing a note. He lounged on one of the chapel's wooden benches, booted feet up on another, his jacket slung carelessly beside him. Across it's epaulette were the three silver stars he'd earned in combat. Inside of the jacket, upside down, he'd scrawled words in ink: _Die Laughing._

_Eren had snorted at him. "Why'd you do that to your uniform?"_

_Jean had thrown back his head and laughed, clapping Eren on the shoulder. "Better die laughing than die crying, nutcase. And I'm fucking sure I'll die upside-down, anyway!"_

The chapel was a soldier's place; the splintered glass in the windows had been rescued from the armoury that Armin and Jean had stormed in 850. The light streamed in as the choir sang.

There was a break in the music, and then Armin stepped forward. He spoke briefly with Hitch Dreyse, who led the ensemble.

He adjusted the small, round glasses that he wore for reading, and then began a soft, mournful tune. It was the _Tribute to the Fallen_. It resonated with every single soldier present, but Armin sang it for his commanding officer, Major Ackerman. Levi's ghosts still hung about him, like iron shackles, and yet somehow the small frame refused to bend, or to break.

Armin Arlert had sung the _Tribute_ each Yulemas. The first year, he was still a cadet, standing upon an apple crate so that he could be seen. He'd been twelve years old.

The chapel stilled, as his voice rose. Jean watched his combat partner quietly. Armin was a slight man; he'd never be tall. His limbs had lengthened, knobby and coltish, and the front of his hay-blond mane was caught up in a silver clasp that he'd found in the river one summer. He had a graceful neck, solid stance and a defined jaw that had rendered his pretty baby-face into that of a young man.

And sometimes, when Jean watched Armin, he found that he couldn't breathe. Barns caught fire; so did bakers' ovens…he hadn't been aware that friendships could catch fire as well.

"Damn," he sighed happily, hoping that he could hide from the Major for another short while.

And then, in the middle of the phrase, Armin let out a horrible _squonk_. Heads shot up.

Armin's eyes widened in surprise. "Sorry, Dreyse," he gave a rueful smile and cleared his throat. "Can I start the line again?"

He shook his blond head, while the choir looked on.

He began to sing, softly, than as the note took flight, another rough break, like a strangled pheasant.

An utter silence, and then Armin muttered, "Aw, _fuck._ "

Sasha Blaus burst into laughter at Armin cursing so uncharacteristically. Others tittered.

Armin flushed crimson, helpless and stricken. And he looked up, straight at Jean.

Jean's heart sank. It was one thing to tease Armin, quite another to see him humiliated. He stood up, slinging his jacket over his shoulder and proclaiming loudly, "Well, _Sweet Rose's frozen arse_ , isn't that enough warbling for today? Cannon won't arm themselves!"

"Yes, Sergeant!" Hitch Dreyse nodded, and the soldiers began to gather up their belongings.

Armin stood, ignored as the others milled around him, staring at Jean and clutching his songbook. He bit his lip. Jean shrugged into his jacket, strode forward and took Armin by the shoulders.

Armin looked up. "I have to do this," a raspy whisper. "I have to do this, for _heichou_. It's the only thing I have to give him."

"You know that's not true," Jean shook his head. Then, efficiently: "Go get the boys, please. Need them up the wall today."

Collecting himself, Armin nodded. placing a hand onto Jean's arm.

"Ain't nothing," Jean bent slightly, to gaze into the blue eyes. He smiled.

_Die Laughing._

__________

'The boys' were Armin's matched cream geldings. Poseidon and Neptune were seven years old, and Armin had driven the wagon team in and out of countless forays. He stamped into the barn and began preparing their tack.

"I can't sing anymore," he told them ruefully.

Poseidon whickered softly. Armin pulled on the horse's cream bridle gently, placing his forehead against the horse's. Poseidon, who was so stable and sure. Poseidon, who hadn't reared and bolted when Armin had fired the shot that had saved Jean's life. Armin closed his eyes. There had been two more incidents, since, where he'd nearly lost Jean. It was utterly bizarre to him that he, small and persecuted, coddled and protected by Eren and Mikasa, should time and again keep the brash sergeant out of harm's way.

"Stupid Jean," he smiled against Poseidon's blaze. "Stupid, stupid Jean….."

__________

Sasha cried out, clapping her hands together ecstatically.

Levi had approached their wooden table in the mess hall, plunking down a ham roll the size of a large fist.

"You deserve more," he said quietly to his elite six. "This is all there is."

As one, Armin and Eren pushed the ham back at him.

"Sir, we can't," Armin said softly. "Not when the little ones are hungry. The cadets, too."

Eren nodded acquiescence.

Sasha growled menacingly.

"The Commander has seen to them," Levi replied. "Besides,"- a sidelong glance at Armin - "You can't grow without food. Weak soldiers are of no use to me."

 _"Hai,"_ Mikasa rose, saluting. The others followed suit.

Sasha had begun to shake. Jean laughed.

They carved the ham up into small pieces. Jean popped one into his mouth. It tasted heavenly.

"Fuck me twice," he swore happily, "Let's have a bit of cider to wash it down."

Glasses were poured. Jean turned to Armin, smiling.

Armin sat quietly, hunched, eyes downcast. Jean elbowed the thin ribcage. "Hey," he prodded, "Eat!"

"I wanted…to sing the _Tribute_ for him. For his squad and for his family, from the underground. But my _voice_ …."

Armin raised his eyes and they were misted with shame. Jean swallowed, a cold fist squeezing his heart.

"Told you," he ruffled the pale head, "You don't worry about that. Why…you'd think it'd be a fine thing, having your balls finally drop!"

Eren, sitting across the table, set his soup bowl down slowly.

Jean clapped Armin on the back. "Cheer up, buttercup! Hey, you gave the Yule goose some competition, didn't ya?"

"Jean!" Eren warned.

"SQUONK!" Jean brayed.

Eren shot out of his seat, hands braced on the table. "That's enough! Can't you see he's in bits?"

"HAWNK!" Jean thought he saw the corners of Armin's mouth lift just a little. He jostled Armin's leg under the table. "C'mon, Arm…"

"Say sorry!" Eren growled.

Jean snorted. His eyes flicked sideways, to Mikasa. He wasn't sure he wanted to rile her. If he did, he knew he'd be dismantled, and end up spending Yulemas in the infirmary. But the dark-haired soldier just shook her head at them dismissively, and continued to eat and talk with Sasha.

Antagonizing Eren, well, that was another matter. That was sport.

"Fucking apologize to him. What's the matter with you?" Eren challenged.

"Nothing wrong with _me_ ," Jean scraped back his chair, rising to his full height. He leaned over the table, nose-to-nose with Eren.

The hazel eyes narrowed. "Nothing wrong with Armin, either. He's had a disappointment, and he'll take a bit of ribbing from me for it. That's what we do."

"You bully him. You make fun of him….you always have. _Heichou_ ….must've been fucking insane, pairing him up with you!"

"We," Jean felt the heat rising in his face, "Are fine. We're better than fine. We're the best damn crack unit Levi has! No offence, Mikasa."

Mikasa dipped her bun into her soup indifferently: "Ah hmm."

Jean was angry that he'd let Eren get under his skin. "You're so fucking _wrong_ , Jaeger. _So_ wrong! I treat Armin like an equal. You….you're the one that coddles him like a fucking _nursemaid_. Both of you. That's fucking worse than teasing!"

"Eren," Mikasa called to her foster-brother. "Sit down."

"You," Jean said quietly, "can't accept that anyone else gives Armin something he needs, or wants. And I do. _Believe me, I do_ …and it drives you crazy."

"Sit down," Armin tugged on Jean's sleeve. "Do we need to do this every time we get a bit of meat?"

Jean reached over, grabbed Eren's mug, and drained it's contents in one swallow. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, grinning.

"Thirsty?" Eren spat. "Are you thirsty, Horse?" And he lunged at Jean, over the dining table.

"Woo-hoo!" Jean hollered, finding himself in an excruciating headlock, dragged outside by a smouldering Eren, and shoved face down into the freezing water of the horse trough.

"Drink your fill now, Horseface!"

Jean thrashed, gagging.

Eren jerked him up by the hair, "Had enough to drink yet? No?" And he was plunged into the trough again.

"Say sorry, Asshole!"

Jean gagged, laughing and choking. "Sorry, Asshole!" he mimicked.

Eren released him then, rising. "Ssh! Listen!"

Jean sat on the frozen ground, shaking water out of his ears. "Wha-?"

Eren's mouth compressed grimly. "That's the bell tower at Shiganshina….there's been a breach!"

His words were drowned out by the sound of the Survey Corps' own watch tower claxon, raising the alarm.

Levi strode into the courtyard, "Oi!" he barked, "Gear up! Let's move!"


	2. Confidante

When the 10th Platoon arrived in Shiganshina District, River Street was already on fire. Twenty-four soldiers, in twelve pairs, set upon a small host of two-metre-class titans and an aberrant; a freakish, multi-limbed creature that crawled along the ground, a metre thick and eight metres long.

Armin lost no time in devising a plan to trap it in the narrow confines of Cobbler's Lane, using nets and harpoons from the rooftops above.

The aberrant left a trail of smoking ash; it squirmed violently as the nets were cast over it's form, smashing foundations and pillars as it went.

It was Jean that delivered the death blow; he was in the vanguard, taking Mikasa's place as she worked with Eren to seal the breach in the wall.

The aberrant titan twitched, writhing inside of the net as Science Officer Hanji Zoë flew around it, fascinated.

Armin left his place on the wall, swooping down to get a closer look.

To Jean, it seemed to happen in slow motion. One of the aberrant's giant arms, in a death spasm, flailed out of the netting, batting Armin Arlert and sending him crashing into Wall Maria. It was ugly, the way the small form contacted the Wall: bent, chest first, then forehead. He left a bloody, moon-shaped blotch on it's surface before crumpling to the ground.

The triumphant grin on Jean Kirschstein's face became a grimace of horror.

"Nooooooo….Arrrrmin!!!" he screamed.

Hanji Zöe reached the fallen form first, followed by Jean.

Hanji turned the small figure carefully. Jean's stomach heaved; would he see staring, glassy eyes?

No. The eyes were closed, Armin's body twitching.

"He lives," Hanji nodded. "Lay him out…"

Hanji made a quick survey of Armin's prone form. "He is whole!" Hanji exclaimed.

"Sir, his lips are blue," Jean knelt, pressing fingers to Armin's jugular. "Shit," he gritted his teeth.

He laced his fingers, thrusting against Armin's chest methodically. He counted compressions, stopped and checked Armin's airway. He extracted a chip of wood the size of his finger, slick with saliva.

"Shit, no….." He tilted Armin's head carefully, fitting his lips over Armin's and breathing into the fallen soldier's mouth. Twice, quickly.

Armin coughed.

Jean crawled away a few feet, doubled over and vomited. "Not him," he whimpered tearfully into the grass. "Please, not him…"

__________

"Grandpa?" It was the merest whisper.

"Grandpa...I'm thirsty…"

Armin's body was full of broken glass. He shifted in the bed, clenching his fists, shivering.

"Armin," he heard a voice, eager and bright. "Armin, can you hear me?"

"Y-yeah…" Uncertain. The blue eyes fluttered open. _Oh Walls, the light was bright…._

Armin tried to raise his head. A curious face peered at him from behind a pair of goggles. It had a halo of russet hair, like a roughed-up rooster.

Armin licked his lips, squinting.

"Armin?"

"W-who are you?" he asked the rooster.

__________

"No..."

"Armin, your grandpa is gone. I'm sorry…"

"But he…he stood in line. He got buns for Mikasa and Eren and me…for dinner last night."

"No Armin, that wasn't last night. That was a very long time ago."

"No, it was…"

"It was six years ago."

"I…I'm…"

"You're eighteen. You are a soldier. A strategist. And a very valuable one."

Armin stretched his hands out onto his thighs as he sat up in bed. Soft hairs, the colour of syrup, peppered his forearms. He stared.

"I'm sorry, what's your name again?"

"I'm Hanji Zoë. Science Officer, Tenth Platoon of the Survey Corps."

Armin swallowed. "My…Eren?"

"Eren is here. Mikasa is here."

"Please, _please_ can I see them?"

Hanji put a large hand overtop of Armin's. "Armin, do you understand what I've told you? You are no longer a child. Eren and Mikasa are adults, too."

__________

He ate. A thin broth, snaking it's way into a belly which was twisted with fear and confusion. When he'd set down the bowl, the door opened.

He burst into tears. She was beautiful. Tall, powerfully-built, with the same red scarf looped around her graceful neck.

"Mikasa! Mikasa!" he sobbed. She hugged him tightly. She smelled right; woods and silk and Shiganshina flowers.

"Blue flowers," he said into her shoulder.

"What is it?"

"The blue flowers. From where we play. You smell of them, still."

She nodded. "Forget-me-not."

"Mikasa, is that Hanji telling the truth? Is…"

Mikasa nodded. "We are together. All of us. We've made a life here. We are soldiers; we have companions. Friends."

"Eren…"

"Armin, Eren looks very different. He's not a little boy anymore."

__________

Armin tried to stop shaking, but it was impossible. The veteran soldier sat on his bed; tall, broad-framed, hands a knotwork of scars. Wide, passionate grey-green eyes in a fine-boned face. A man, with Eren's eyes and Eren's smile.

Armin's fingers reached out, tracing the fine features, touching the worn battalion jacket, taking the strong hands in his own.

"Eren," he repeated the name of his closest loved-one. "Eren…."

He drifted in-and-out of sleep. Each time he awoke, he reached for Eren and Mikasa, asking questions, the reality of his situation slowly sinking in.

As the sun began to set, Eren finally rose.

"I'm staying here," Mikasa said softly, curled beside Armin, stroking the pale hair as he slept. Eren nodded.

He stepped outside of the infirmary.

Jean Kirschstein was in the hallway, face gaunt, eyes red-rimmed and hard.

Eren walked toward him. Jean put up a hand, steadying himself against the wall.

"Jean," Eren said softly.

Jean looked into Eren's eyes, seeing only pity and concern. He began to shake his head slowly.

"Jean…I'm sorry. He has…no memory of you."

It was like a physical blow. Jean winced, eyes screwed shut in pain, and sagged against the wall.

"D-do you tell the truth? Are you lying?" he choked out.

A large hand landed on his shoulder. "I wouldn't," Eren said softly. "You know I wouldn't. I know what he means to you…I…"

Jean shrugged off the well-intentioned hand, stumbling down the hall and out into the frosty air.

__________

He flew, tanks singing wildly as he spun through the trees at full-throttle. He slashed at the tree limbs, swooping and wheeling, face seared with frozen tears. He came upon a practice dummy; a large, wooden titan-form mounted in the forest. With an agonized scream, he hacked at it's neck, shearing it's head clean off.

He wheeled, blades inverted in the fashion of Levi, and slashed at the dummy's arms until they crashed to the forest floor.

He screamed, raged and chopped at the figure until it lay demolished.

His tanks began to sputter.

He flew to ground, easing down into the mess and sitting there, knees pulled to his chest.

The forest was serene. Jean Kirschstein sat huddled in the wreckage of the practice dummy, silent. He allowed the tears to roll down his cheeks, hot and meandering, dropping onto the breast of his jacket.

He watched his own breath; icy puffs which issued, dissipated and were gone. He breathed in. Out. In.

He grew numb.

He tried to recall his first impression of Armin; small, sweet-featured, practical. Not strong. Lagging behind in the runs. Welded to Eren's side. He'd liked Armin well enough…but it had been a number of months before he and Armin had truly begun working with, and for, one another. He owed his life to Armin, four times over.

The three Shiganshina natives would always have a familial bond; but Armin had stretched beyond his childhood, forming relationships with others. Levi had done the right thing in pairing them. Jean was cocky, arrogant and mouthy, however in the field, he obeyed Armin's commands as marshal without hesitation. He supported Armin, assisted him and allowed him room to grow and develop as Commander Smith needed him to.

"You need me," he breathed into the quiet of the forest. " _I need you_ …" The words tumbled out, their truth frightening him beyond measure.

_Without memory of the time we've shared…how can I be anything to you? I'm nothing but the platoon's mouthy jackass….a clown…afraid to speak the truth…_

Jean turned his blade thoughtfully, catching his reflection. He paused, lost in thought. And then, it came to him.

He looked up at the trees, considering.

He smiled.

__________

Armin had moved from the bed to a chair. He was stiff and bruised, but otherwise intact. The door opened, and a tall figure entered.

A man with a handsome, haggard, aquiline face; a scrub of sandy hair and sideburns. His eyes were tapered, honey-hazel, and red-rimmed.

Armin shut his eyes, searching his memory. Nothing. But he recognized the man nonetheless.

"Jean?"

The face brightened hopefully. "D-do you…?"

"No, I'm sorry. I…I don't remember. But I've sketched you, in my journal. See here? I've been leafing through it, trying to…jog something…"

Jean stepped forward. The book was open on Armin's lap. Armin had sketched him, many times. The likeness was uncanny; Armin was very good.

Across one of the sketches, in a much cruder hand, Jean himself had written: _Just look at this handsome stud!_

Armin smiled. "You are my platoon partner, Eren says. We fight as a tandem."

Jean sat on the bed. Armin rose from the chair slowly, easing himself onto the bed as well. He faced Jean and crossed his legs, elbows on his knees and chin propped on his interlaced fingers.

"That," Jean breathed, "That is what you do." The lovely, tapered eyes held hope. "That is exactly how you sit when we talk at night. Exactly like that…"

"How old are you?" Armin asked.

"Eighteen," Jean smirked. "But I'm tall for my age."

"I am eighteen, too…" Armin said slowly.

"I know," Jean nodded.

"Jean, will you help me with something?"

Jean pressed his lips together. In a thousand other lifetimes, he'd begin to tease Armin right about now.

"Yes," he said softly, taking one of the smaller hands in his own. "We trust one another in all things."

"Oh!" Armin's eyes widened in surprise. He found that he had no desire to pull his hand away. On the contrary, it gave him immense relief to understand that he had this man's devotion.

"Jean, will you get a mirror for me?"

Jean rose, disappeared and returned lugging a large, oval looking glass.

Armin got out of bed, slowly. He stood uncertainly, in the centre of the room. He looked back at Jean. Then, slowly, he removed the blood-stained olive shirt; Jean's shirt. He looked down at his hands, calloused and ink-stained. His forearms were shapely and there was hair on them which he'd never seen before.

He stood in front of the looking glass. He gasped, leaning back on his heels. Then, eyes large and full of wonder, he stretched out a hand, fingers splayed, to try and touch the blond man in the mirror.

Soundlessly, he traced the glass: the long, blond hair; thick, direct eyebrows; intelligent blue eyes. Pixie nose and mouth. Firm jaw.

"Hello," he said softly, the word breaking like seafoam on rocks. "Armin Arlert….Armin."

His hands went to the buttons of his trousers. He pulled open his fly, easing his pants down to puddle at his ankles, and stepped out of them. A thatch of hair, the colour of syrup, curled at his crotch. His shins had hair on them, too, and a long white scar snaked across one of his thighs.

He stood, gazing into the mirror, fingers absently tracing the scars, the lines of muscle and sinew.

Jean was spellbound; transfixed as Armin became reacquainted with himself.

"Am I…" Armin asked quietly, "Am I…a good man, Jean?"

Jean clapped a hand to his mouth, fresh tears springing into his eyes. "Armin, yes…."


	3. Beloved

It filled Armin with awe that his commanding officers were the living legends that he and Eren had cheered on to battle as children. He sat at the desk in the office he shared with Major Ackerman. _Levi Ackerman. Humanity's strongest._ Armin gave his head a shake.

Levi speaks tersely, moves fluidly and misses nothing. His silver-grey eyes hang like new moons beneath the fringe of jet black hair. He regards Armin with a dispassionate expression, intended to mask a deep well of care which is almost palpable.

"Can you do sums?" Levi asked him the first day Armin was up and about.

Armin frowned. "Yes, I suppose."

Then he remembered his station: "I suppose, Sir."

When Levi said nothing further, Armin pressed on. "I….I seem to know how to put on my gear. I know where the bakery is. I…I can read my own notes. I just…" the soft voice dropped to a whisper, "I just don't remember anyone…I have some skills….I just have no memories…."

"Sit," Levi instructed. He plunked some notebooks in front of Armin. "Read through. Take your time. Do you like tea?"

"I think so."

Armin perused the manuals. He picked up a pencil and began to draw diagrams. He crossed the floor to get Levi's abacus, and shortly it's beads were clacking merrily away.

At the end of the day, he rose.

"Sir….these manuals. Is this Commander Smith's strategy set?"

"No," Levi replied. "It's yours. The output of your mind, Armin. You've helped to turn the tide of the war."

"Shoot," Armin said softly, slumping back into his seat and suddenly feeling very tired and not at all eighteen years old.

__________

The next day, he followed Levi into the practice yard, where Eren and Jean were sparring. As Armin approached, Jean raised his head, giving Armin a sunny smile and getting knocked onto his back for his troubles. Armin winced.

"Can I do that?" he asked the Major.

"You were hopeless at first," Levi didn't break his stride. "Now, you're much better."

"Huh."

Connie Springer and Sasha Blaus had a wagon backed up to the armoury doors, and were busy loading shells at a brisk pace. The normally giggly, gregarious pair were quiet, focused.

Armin stopped to watch them. "Ey, Armin!" Connie raised a hand. "You remember how to fire one of these bad boys?"

"Do I know how to fire a cannon?" he asked Levi.

"You help to design cannon," Levi informed him.

"Sir?"

"Connie and…and…"

"Sasha."

"… yes, Sasha. They work together so well. And quickly. I've been watching them…they move as one, when they are in the field…Have you ever noticed this?"

Ahead of Armin, a rare, bemused smile lit Levi's dour face.

"Yes, I have noticed. Connie and Sasha are platoon partners. But they are also a bonded pair. Their connection runs deeply. It serves them. It serves all of us."

"Bonded," Armin repeated. "Like glue?"

Levi had reached the horse trough, outside of the stables. "No," he cupped both hands, dipped them into the chilly water, raised them and and brought them together as one. "Like this," he replied.

__________

It was a novelty to Armin; wandering about the Survey Corps compound without constantly looking over his shoulder, in fear of bullies.

He was an adult now; not tiny, scruffy Armin from Shiganshina. He was a soldier. Folk knew his name. He had his family. He had friends. He had a purpose. Young cadets saluted him, addressing him as 'Marshal' or 'Sir'.

"Do I outrank you?" Armin asked Jean at mess hall dinner one evening.

Eren guffawed, spitting his soup back into his bowl. His eyes danced in amusement.

"What?" Armin looked at his oldest friend.

"Armin, you outrank everyone here."

"Oh, shoot." Armin said quietly, pondering.

He looked back at Jean, who was leaning casually on his elbow, watching him with amusement.

"Jean?"

"Yes...Sir?"

"Do you obey my orders?"

Eren dropped his head onto his arms, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Jean squirmed uneasily. "I've tried to never let you _down_ ," he said quietly.

"Ahhhh… _funny_ …" Eren wiped his eyes. "Armin, Jean is a mouthy, brash, opinionated hothead. He's a mess."

"I'm not brash," Jean countered. "Do you even know what _brash_ means? Can you spell brash?"

A sharp thock as Mikasa's butterfly knife stuck into the table between Jean and Eren, pinioning a blush apple to the board.

"I cannot listen to this again tonight," she said flatly. "Share this, and be quiet."

"I think," Armin observed, "that Mikasa is truly in charge here. Is that not so, sister?"

__________

The elite six shared quarters in what used to be a grain silo. It was round, twenty paces across, made of stone, and had three storeys. The ground floor held the armoury. The second floor contained three sturdy double-bunks, well-spaced with half-walls between each that once had separated grain. The centre of the room was common and held a round table, chairs and a woodstove. On the third floor was a small loft, leading to the roof.

Armin slept in the top bunk, with Jean below. He enjoyed his high perch, having discovered that he was by nature very nosy, and the top bunk allowed him to see over the top of the other half-walls, into the quarters that Eren shared with Mikasa, and Connie shared with Sasha.

Eren and Mikasa dried herbs upside down by nailing them to the rafters. From these, Mikasa made teas, remedies and seasoned food. It tugged a little at Armin's heart, as he remembered Karla doing the same at their childhood home in Shiganshina.

The strains of conversation he caught from Connie and Sasha were amusing.

_Girl, I don't mind if you sock away potatoes, or a bit of cheese…it's when you forget about it and it smells….it smells like a cow's innards…._

_Cows...beef….Sasha would sigh dreamily._

Low, thick rafters transected the roof, close to Armin's bunk and these, he discovered, he'd fashioned into shelves for himself. The rafters held books, notes, pens and other assorted treasures.

The hoarde included sketchbooks. He discovered that he was a reasonable artist. He'd drawn titans, leaves, the skeleton of a bat and beside it a contraption that look like wings, strapped to a figure that looked like Major Ackerman. He'd drawn weapons and catapults and engines.

He had drawn Jean Kirschstein. The renderings were detailed, the lines sure and unwavering. Jean's eyes, Jean's full mouth.

Armin sat, perched in his eyrie, legs crossed, poring over his notebook. He'd begun to dream; languid things, highly-coloured scenes…skin and scent and aching dreams which roused him from sleep with a taut erection. Connie called this _morning wood_ and paid it no more heed than a belch.

The door of the barracks opened, and Armin's squadmates trooped up the stairs.

Jean entered first, pursing his lips and giving a small chirp.

"Here," Armin answered, without thinking.

Jean's head shot up to the bunk, eyes gleaming. "Armin!"

He boosted himself up the ladder, sitting on the bed facing Armin. "How'd you know that was meant for you? Did you….did you remember something?"

Armin shook his head. "I'm sorry. That was a swallow's cry. Look, see? I draw them."

Jean wilted.

"But," Armin said softly, "I know now that it's for me, don't I?"

Jean raised his head, and, testing his new resolve again, he reached a hand out, catching a tendril of Armin's bright hair.

"Armin, I…."

"Weasel!" Connie cried out suddenly. "Weasel!"

"Damn!" Jean vaulted off the bed. "Where, Con?"

Connie gritted his teeth, pointing. "There's the little prick!"

Eren threw a boot in the weasel's general direction. It bounced off the stone wall.

"What's wrong with weasels?" Armin wanted to know.

"Eats the rations, the eggs…" Sasha replied fiercely.

"Armin," she called, "You were working on a weasel trap, so you were…"

"I was?"

__________

Armin had spent a good chunk of the evening leafing through his notes, looking for any sketch that might resemble a weasel trap. His companions scampered through the silo, chucking whatever they could at the weasel and clambering about the rooftop, trying to find and plug the hole through which it had entered.

This was finally located by Connie, who plugged it with a dented gas canister.

Armin, meanwhile, had decided to have one more look through his journal. He had hung a lamp onto a hook above his bed, and hunched over the book, pushing his hair back behind his ears.

He thumbed the back cover of the book, discovering a seam in the leather. Ah. A pocket in the cover. And inside of this, a letter.

He glanced up. His friends sat around the table, congratulating themselves on having evicted the weasel. Jean passed around a silver flask, and even Eren accepted this with a wry smile. No one was looking at him.

He passed his fingers over the envelope. On it was written: _To be read upon my death._

Armin was a realist. As much as he hoped that the shards of his fractured memory would knit, it had been eight days and he'd begun to accept an alternate possibility - he might have to begin anew.

And if that was the case…well…whatever the previous Armin had written, he'd best have a look.

He thumbed open the envelope carefully. It contained two pages. The first was a last testament of sorts; it willed his property to Eren and Mikasa. This now included a brace of hens, should any remain; three goats, should any remain; and a pair of cream geldings. He smiled fondly. So, the boys, Poseidon and Neptune, belonged to him, now.

The small square plot of land in Shiganshina, the ruined site of his grandfather's house, he'd willed to Major Ackerman. _"So he can make a home aboveground"_ Armin had written.

The second item was a letter, in his handwriting, folded in three.

 _"Dearest Jean…"_ It began.

Armin snapped the letter to his chest, peering over the edge of his bunk. Eren was banking the fire in the stove. Sasha was grumbling about roasted weasel. No one paid Armin any heed. He swallowed.

_"Dearest Jean,_

_As of this writing, I am only a memory. I share these words with you across time, to reveal to you, in full measure, the truth I hold within my heart…"_

Armin gasped. He coughed. His heart had begun to hammer in his chest. _Oh, my….oh…..my…._

Jean sprawled at the table, feet up, giving a loud and very unfavourable opinion of someone called Nile Dok. Eren, for once, was in agreement with Jean.

Sasha sat on the table, her hands apart, allowing Mikasa to wrap coloured wool between them and commence knitting.

Armin's hands began to shake. Face aflame, he forced himself to read the contents of the letter.

When he had finished, he stuffed it back into it's envelope, with his last testament, which he deemed satisfactory although he had no idea what was meant by Levi needing a home aboveground.

He sat on his bunk, mute, arms folded tightly against his middle, trying to breathe. His heart was pounding in his ears, and his belly ached; a needy, secret ache.

"Shoot," he whispered. He looked at Jean, grateful beyond measure that no one looked back at him. He watched Eren comment on something, jabbing Jean in the breastbone. Jean smiled; it was a half-smile, quirking his full lips. Armin lay back on his bed, staring at the rafters. Above his head, a sparrow skeleton on a string twirled slowly, aimlessly.

__________

Armin arose early, and went to the stables. After all, he apparently had two horses to feed and care for. Two cadets, no older than thirteen, were attending to several horses quartered therein.

They straightened upon seeing Armin, snapping off crisp salutes.

"Marshal!"

"Sir!"

Armin returned the salute. "As you were…" he nodded.

"Sir, my name is Brigid," one of them ventured.

"And I'm Clovis," said the other.

"And you know I'm having a bit of a memory problem," Armin smiled at them. "So, are we well acquainted?"

"Yes, sir!" Brigid bobbed her head vigorously. "Very well acquainted, sir! We assist your unit, sir."

Armin stepped forward, approaching the two cream work horses in their stalls. The horses' nostrils widened, scenting him excitedly.

"Hey boys," he greeted them. He took hold of Neptune's bridle, tugging gently. The horse nosed Armin's shoulder.

"Clovis, what day is it today?"

"Why, it's Friday, Marshal."

"What do I do on Fridays?"

"Drive, sir. Into the village for bread and whatever else there is. You and Sergeant Kirschstein."

Armin bit his lip. He wondered if he could bear to ever look at Sergeant Kirschstein again.

__________

With only a little help from Brigid and Clovis, Armin got his team harnessed up to the supply wagon in the yard. Shivering, he pulled his cape around him tightly and stomped off to find the Major.

"Sir," Levi was in Commander Smith's office. "I'm going. It's Friday and I'm going. For bread. What else do you need?"

"Well, me for a start," drawled Jean, leaning in the doorway of the office. "Didn't see you at breakfast."

Levi handed Armin a list. "If you're up to it. Please and thank-you."

Armin strode out into the yard, Jean behind him.

"Armin? What's eating you?"

Armin turned. Jean's gear belt was slung low across his hips, the straps of his harness pulling against the full thighs. "Where is your cloak?" Armin asked crossly.

"Why?" Jean grinned. "You want me to cover up this splendid form?"

"Get in the wagon."

Jean flexed his bicep, posing.

"Get in the wagon, Sergeant!"

__________

Drawing the crisp winter air into his lungs, riding high on the driver's bench, Armin felt invigorated. He knew, whether by instinct or by recall, how to drive the supply wagon. Jean was perched in the back, ensuring that their cargo remained secure.

Jean chatted happily to Armin on a variety of subjects, including the weasel. Armin laughed. The sound of Jean's voice anchored him.

As they approached the ford at the river, Armin slowed the wagon. He turned, peering over his right shoulder, to look back at Jean in the rear of the wagon.

Then, his vision hazed over.

_He saw Jean, in the back of the wagon. There was an attacker, gun shoved in Jean's face, about to take his life. Armin felt the bile rise in his throat. The rage. The acrid curl of gunsmoke in his nostrils. The blood. He'd fired. He'd….._

The horses danced a little to the left, startled by Armin's cry. Jean leapt out of the wagon, grabbed the reins, looping them around the hitching post at the ford.

He scooped Armin off of the driver's seat, into his arms, and held on tight. Armin flailed, sobbing, until Jean trapped his arms against his chest.

He rested his cheek on top of Armin's head, tears searing and blurring the icy burble of the river in front of him.

"What," muffled and miserable, "What did I do? _What did I do?"_

"You are safe," Jean murmured, not releasing his hold. "You are safe and sane, and so am I. So is your family. All is well, right now. All is well. Please Armin, hang onto that…hang onto that…"

__________

"He remembered the wagon. The shooting."

Erwin Smith nodded.

"His cognitive skills are intact. Some memory is returning."

Erwin stood in his office, Hanji and Levi in attendance. Between them, on Erwin's desk, was a steel case containing rows of glass vials.

"This one," Hanji touched a vial with a finger. "This one will help him to reconnect."

There was a pause, during which the leaders of the Survey Corps pondered the issue at hand; Armin Arlert's memory and his value as a strategic asset.

"What does Armin say?" Erwin asked finally.

"Armin has weighed the risks and he wants to proceed," Levi replied. "He has the same goal he's always had; and that is to be of service to humanity, to risk change, at any cost."

Hanji lifted the vial, the light catching it's citrine content. "Well then," Hanji nodded, "It will be done. Armin will receive the injection."

__________

A light, meandering snowfall had begin during the night. Armin had awoken, crept down the ladder of his bunk and stood in the quiet of the silo.

 _By this time tomorrow night_ , he pondered to himself, _I'll either be intact again, or I won't. Or I'll be turnip mush._

The corners of his mouth turned down sadly. This life, nine days into it's infancy, was colourful and whole and, as Mikasa always said…dangerous yet beautiful. What would he remember of this brief time?

Quietly, he padded over to the wood stove. He took the letter he'd written to Jean out of his pocket, opened the stove door, and placed it inside. It caught fire, just as their friendship had, burned incandescent blue and orange. It's embers travelled up, out of the silo, into the moonlit sky.

Dragging his blanket, Armin climbed the spiral staircase to the third floor loft. Had he come up here at night before? Perhaps he'd never know. The moon was bright, glazing the loft floor in silver, through which snowy shadows swirled.

Armin curled up between two sacks of flour, wrapping his blanket tightly. Someone had carved 'die weasel' onto the windowframe. He smiled.

He watched the snowflakes drift and fall, soundlessly carpeting the compound in white.

_To be read upon my death._

"What did you burn?"

Armin jumped. "Ah!"

Jean pulled himself up into the loft, sitting close to Armin. "What did you throw into the fire, Armin?"

"A letter."

"From…from your Grandpa? Something that made you sad?" Jean inched closer, until his knee touched Armin's through the blanket.

Armin looked up. The moonlight limned Jean's face, catching it's straight, angular planes, the incongruity of his soft, full mouth. He smelled sweet and warm and sleepy.

"Not something sad," Armin said softly. "Just….something that I wouldn't want found after I'm dead."

Jean swivelled around, fitting himself beside Armin, with his back against the flour sacks, looking out at the snow. "Are you afraid? To receive the injection?"

Armin pondered the question. "I suppose. If I spend time dwelling on fearful things…"

"…I wouldn't be able to do my _job_ ," Jean finished along with Armin. "Ah, you've not changed all that much, have you?"

"No," Armin looked down, flushing. "Yes."

He felt the warmth of Jean's bulk through the thin wool blanket.

"Jean, I need to know."

Jean tilted his head back, resting it on the flour sack, shutting his eyes.

"Armin," he shook his head.

"No," the soft voice held a note of finality, "I need to know. Clearly, we were friends. _Are_ friends. Were….were we bonded? Like the Major and Commander Smith are? Like Connie and Sasha?"

Jean's lips tightened, and he released a long, shuddering sigh. Armin snatched at his shirt sleeve.

"Don't leave," he whispered urgently. "I know you want to."

Jean stretched out one long leg slowly, lolling his head to regard Armin. "You won't like this," he said quietly.

Armin waited.

Jean closed his eyes. Armin didn't remember spending time in this loft. Didn't remember that it was their bolt-hole. They'd talked, napped, stolen some of Sasha's cache of cheese and eaten it. Waited with slingshots for the weasel. Read. Dreamed.

_Jean's mother had died the previous winter. He'd been filled with remorse at his callous treatment of her. He'd loved her dearly and, childlike, had been shocked and wounded that she should die and leave him._

_Grief did not sit well with Jean; he felt it as a mixture of rage and helplessness and it drove him to the loft, alone._

_Armin had found him some time later, red-eyed, lost. Jean had held a hand out to Armin, pulling him to the floor. Armin's arms had wrapped around him tightly, and Jean had given in to the indignity of his pain; weeping and mumbling while the person he trusted most in the world held him._

_They'd drifted off to sleep, only to wake a couple of hours later, warm and aching and empty. Jean hadn't thought any more tears were possible, only there they were, on his cheeks until Armin, distressed, had wiped at Jean's face with his inky purple hands and then kissed his cheeks, whispering reassurances that he tried to supplement by pressing close, molding his body to Jean's._

_Jean had stiffened as an aching wave began to build inside of him; he'd made a promise to himself, and also in unspoken fashion to Armin, to Eren and Mikasa, that he would respect Armin's position._

_But the softly rocking, delicate body pressing against him was making it nearly impossible. Armin's cuddling had become needy, breathy, and when he turned just enough that his groin rubbed against Jean's, the pleasure splintered Jean's remaining resolve; he unclenched his jaw to gasp for air and was lost._

_Armin froze in his arms almost as if sampling the sweetness coursing through him, then resumed rocking, rubbing, until Jean's thighs parted to admit the slender hips. Jean rolled onto his back, head thrown back, teeth punching dents into his bottom lip._

_Armin made a small sound then; a sound of wonder and confusion and spiked lust. "Please…."_

_Shaking, Jean slid a hand between their bellies, flattening it and easing it into Armin's pants. He palmed the hard, silky flesh softly, stroking just a little, allowing Armin to move against his hand._

_His small partner lay with his head on Jean's chest, mouth open against Jean's collarbone, eyes shut as he rubbed against Jean's hand, breath coming in sips._

_Jean curled his fingers slowly. "Baby," he'd whispered, so softly the word was merely a shape. Armin had come, and Jean had too, thrusting against his own wrist awkwardly and with an intensity that could splinter bone._

"You won't like it," Jean said quietly, taking Armin's hand.

"Armin, you've always made it clear….very clear, that you have no intention of taking a lover…of allowing yourself to become close to anyone in that way. You've said that it would be a weakness…and that you can't afford weaknesses. And that…even if such feelings were to develop, you'd never reveal them."

Armin blinked. "I did?"

"You did."

Armin pondered this. "I'm not sure I follow my own reasoning," he mused.

"Surely…surely the more we have to lose, the harder we would resolve to fight?"

"I don't know. It's your thought. Not mine."

"It seems to me," Armin continued, "that it would be a shame to lose such a…person to death, but it would be a tragedy to just…to throw them away."

"I'm a prick," Jean sighed. "I'm an ass and a loudmouth and I embarrass you at functions. I tease you every chance I get, for sport, because you don't understand that you're being teased. I tie your boot laces together. I bait Eren for my own amusement. But…"

Jean took a breath. It had seemed so simple, sitting in the forest after he'd raged at the wooden practice dummy. So simple to say the words to Armin, to end the unspoken weight hanging between them.

"Armin, I love the bones of you. You're the best friend I have in this world, and I've kept that to myself, out of respect. Whether you remember it or not, we've shared more than we should have, up here in this loft. When I thought that you'd been killed, my biggest regret was that I hadn't let you know."

Armin studied Jean, for a long moment.

"What a mess," he said softly. He cupped Jean's face in his hands, scooted closer, and kissed Jean slowly on the mouth. His pink tongue poked gently, seeking entrance.

Jean parted his lips, moaning.

Armin pulled away then, leaning back on his heels.

"I remember how to give a kiss, then," he smiled.

Jean chuckled softly.

"I don't think you ever kissed me. Not on the mouth."

"I didn't?"

"Nope." Jean shook his head.

"But…"

"Even though I did awful things to you in this loft, until you were squeaking for more…"

"But no kiss?"

"There was no kiss, Armin."

"That's too bad. Because I think I kiss quite well."

__________

In a wooden chapel on the edge of the forest, the remains of Her Majesty Queen Historia's Rangers, Survey Corps 10th Platoon, gathered to honour their dead.

Yulemas had dawned, clear and cold, with yet more snow. By late afternoon, the candle vigils had begun; a bright glow appearing in shopkeepers' windows, in the soldiers' barracks, in the houses of the village.

The chapel smelled of fresh cedar and hollyberry; the Wings of Freedom banner was unfurled over the nave, and it was here that Commander Smith stood welcoming his soldiers as they entered, from the smallest cadet, eyes wide and curious, to the elite six soldiers that underpinned their fight for survival.

When Major Ackerman entered, the assembly rose, as one, to offer salute.

This pleased Armin; Major Ackerman went about his business quietly and without fanfare…a dimunitive, brave, haunted man.

"Armin," Jean was behind him, "They're saluting _you_ , you nit."

Armin's head shot up. "Oh!"

He walked slowly up the rows of cadets, servicemen and officers, all standing in appreciation of his contribution and sacrifices.

The chapel was bathed in warmth. Armin smiled. He flashed back to his first solo…he'd been squirming nervously at the front of the chapel, holding Mikasa's hand, before he stepped onto the apple crate to sing.

So many, many memories. All restored. All his own. The sting of the bullies' fists against his tiny face, until the first day Eren and Mikasa had intervened; standing small and furious against a bank of cannon to shield Eren; doing what had been necessary to keep Jean among the living. Raising his young Queen to power. Regrouping under his one-armed Commander to continue the fight.

He raised his eyes to the Wings of Freedom, stood as tall as he could manage and saluted the flag. Perhaps not this day, but one day soon, humanity would prevail and walk freely out of the gates of this prison, across the countryside, to the sea.

He turned, taking his place among the ranks, Eren on one side of him, and his bonded partner Jean on the other.

She was tiny in the doorway; cloaked in white, hooded against the snow. Four guards fell in beside her as she made her way slowly up the aisle. Her fellow soldiers bowed their heads to her as she passed. She was also eighteen years of age.

Taking her place at the front, Queen Historia lowered her hood, joined the choir and began to sing, in a clear, sweet voice, the _Tribute of the Fallen:_

 _As winter cloaks the land in white_  
_O'er fields run red with blood_  
_Our souls take flight into the sky_  
_The fire takes our bones._

 _Lay down your arms, and raise your eyes_  
_To the north our spirit flies,_  
_We paint the skies in green and gold_  
_The fire in our hearts behold_

__________

The bonfires were roaring by the time the service had concluded. Relieved of duty, the cadets ran around the compound, chasing one another and mock-fighting.

Armin approached Levi, who stood next to a firepit, lost in thought.

"Sir?"

Levi raised his chin a little.

"Sir, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't sing the _Tribute_."

"You would have been a disaster."

"I know."

Armin turned away.

"Armin!"

"Sir?"

"I don't need a song from you. You are more than enough as you are, Marshal."

Armin smiled.

__________

"So," Jean was warming to his story, "We were running out of gas, no way to get back, with Titans swarming all over the armoury…"

The little group of cadets listened with rapt attention.

"So, that's when I decided to storm the armoury single-handedly…"

He looked up to see Armin, arms crossed across his chest, wearing a clean olive drab shirt and watching him mischeviously.

"Come here," Armin mouthed.

Jean excused himself and joined Armin, who dragged him past the fire pits, past the kitchen, and under the snow-covered overhang of willow at the end of the compound.

"Happy Yulemas to you, Sergeant," Armin stood on his toes, reaching up to kiss Jean softly.

Jean scooped him up, holding Armin tightly, thanking every god there was and half his ancestors for just one more day with his bondmate.

"I burned a letter," Armin said against his cheek. "It was a letter addressed to you. It was to be given to you after I die."

"Oh?" Jean stood back a little, holding Armin by the shoulders, studying the exquisite face.

"Yes. I burned it. But I remember every word. And I want you to hear it now, because it comes from my heart. It begins, _"Dearest Jean…."_

 


End file.
